


beloved — come awake

by GoddessOfTheVoid



Series: short multifandom ficlets [3]
Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Backstory, Blasphemy, Canon Temporary Character Death, Catholic Guilt, Character Study, Crusades, Falling In Love, First Kiss, First Meetings, Hopeful Ending, Light Angst, M/M, POV Nicky | Nicolò di Genova, Religious Conflict, Religious Guilt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-25
Updated: 2020-07-25
Packaged: 2021-03-05 05:08:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,556
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25498849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GoddessOfTheVoid/pseuds/GoddessOfTheVoid
Summary: The first time he awoke, laying amidst thousands of rotten corpses, he screamed. Heartbreaking anguish echoing in the emptiness of the desert as he ripped the sword out of his guts with the certainty that despite his unexplainable survival before, death would now come for him.The second time he crawled trough the mass of rotten corpses around him, drenched in gore until he was heaving, until he was spitting blood and acid into the tainted sands around him.The third time he was certain that this had to be divine punishment.
Relationships: Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Series: short multifandom ficlets [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1629358
Comments: 23
Kudos: 171





	beloved — come awake

**Author's Note:**

> So I watched the movie a few days ago and promptly fell into the hole for another ship (but then again how are people even supposed to resist that chemistry :D)  
> And since could not get those two out of my head here is this short ficlet that started out as an angsty character sturdy but still managed it to sneak a happy end in.  
> I have only watched the movie so I have no idea about their exact backstory. This is my own version of it and obviously there will be differences and inaccuracies so if you want full canon accuracy this fic might not be for you.  
> The title and verse at the end are based on a loose translation of one of my favorite Hristo Botev poems.
> 
> As always English is not my first language so please be kind.
> 
> And if you want to talk about the ship or any other fandom always feel free to hit me up on tumblr (@feedingmyinsomnia) :D or join the [Old Guard discord server](https://discord.gg/J2EcRyY)

The first time he awoke, laying amidst thousands of rotten corpses, he screamed. Heartbreaking anguish echoing in the emptiness of the desert as he ripped the sword out of his guts with the certainty that despite his unexplainable survival before, death would now come for him.

The second time he crawled trough the mass of rotten corpses around him, drenched in gore until he was heaving, until he was spitting blood and acid into the tainted sands around him.

The third time he was certain that this had to be divine punishment. 

He was in hell. 

There was no other explanation. He was being punished. Condemned to relive this war for eternity. To fail and fail each time he set out on his holy mission.

Every single time after he died he got up and returned to the battlefield. Some sense of twisted duty mixed with the fear of having to actually process what was happening to him, to accept that something was indeed wrong with him. Instead, he focused on the only purpose he had left, something indoctrinated so deep into him he could not yet shake it off. 

He had set out to die in this place, eventually. He had boarded a ship away from his home to fight.For God and glory. He was no one. He was everyone. One of the many men sent to those cursed sands to slaughter in the name of a God he was not sure he could believe in anymore. Nameless, faceless. Just another body who would rot into this tainted earth, as disposable as the thousands who came before him and would come long after he was dead and gone.

Only he was not gone.

There was no death for him. No lasting rest. No glory either. He didn’t rise into the divine paradise that was supposed to await him for his good deeds in the name of his Lord.

Instead each day he arose from his grave like a false messiah. Praised be the lord for he has defied death. Again. And again. And again.

Days blurred into weeks into months. Not that it mattered. Not when the war raged on and there were new men for him to kill each day. Mindless slaughter from dawn till dusk until the earth beneath his feet was wet from all the blood that had been spilled and there was nothing but the stench of decomposing flesh around him.

All those men around him. Dying in agony. What for? 

They were the same. Death did not discriminate. Death created nothing but equality.

Both sides fighting for a purpose that was essentially the same. Was it not him who came into their lands to conquer and take? Why should they not defend the place they called home?

Years of being manipulated by his elders. Of being told he was superior, that he was more than those barbaric subhumans, brainwashed into following the orders of his God. 

Fucking lies.

Nothing but a ruse to make him obedient, to brainwash him into traveling to the end of the world to die under the blazing sun.

They led him like a lamb right into slaughter. And for what? Nothing but greed. 

It was not those elder priests with gold on their fingers dying. It was young men like him. Some barely adults if all. 

Worthless. All of them. Where was God if countless men were sent to die every single day? Was this really what their Lord in heaven wanted? He doubted it.

He wondered how many men had the same realization as their dying breath left them. A bitter understanding at the end of their life that the once so noble cause was nothing but a filthy lie.

Death did not discriminate, indeed. As they laid dying on the battlefield they were the same. No matter which side they previously fought on. Only for them, it was too late. Their bodies stilled before they could make a difference, before they could even think about peace.

In the end, there was nothing left but the desperate need for comfort as agonizing pain diffused into darkness.

Surviving his death did not mean it was less painful for him. Far from it.

If only there was a way to stop this anguish. How unfortunate for him that there wasn’t.

Instead, there was envy. For those men who found their personal peace, who were free of this place once their heart stopped beating. There was no more pain for them. Wherever they were, they could rest. They were free of this war.

He could not rest. He was not free.

It felt like he was bound to this place. An invisible force keeping him in place, forcing him to fight and die each single day.

Agony became his new constant state of mind. A miserable torture he kept telling himself he did not deserve. But perhaps he did.

_It is God’s will._ His priests would have told him.

Then cursed be the God who decided to force this upon him for he had done nothing but obey his will.

Had he not killed countless of those barbarians? Had he not spread His word? Why was it not enough?

Cursed be the God who did not show him forgiveness for his sins.

He was not merciful. He was a monster.

Condemning him to loneliness and pain for eternity.

He would have cried if he had any tears left. He would have screamed if there was anything left to scream about.

Instead, there was nothing but emptiness. Mindless killing until he died. Until he awoke and the cycle started anew.

Life. Death. Life. Death.

Misery.

Until he noticed _him_.

The other man. His enemy.

How many times had they met on the battlefield? How many times had they killed each other? By the time he noticed him he had long lost count.

It had been too hard to differentiate, to realize that the man he had been fighting for months wasin fact one and the same. Not another. Not one of the many others but exactly the same. 

And with that came a frightening realization.

He was like him.

Whatever curse had befallen him, the other man had suffered the same.

There was no other explanation. Not when he had seen him die. Not when he had been the one to push his sword into his heart. 

He had killed him, that much he was certain of. And yet the man stood before him, alive and well, pointing his curved sword at him.

For the first time in what was probably months or years, he felt hope. He was not alone. Not anymore. There was another one who was like him. Maybe even many more in other places in the world. 

Whatever this burden that was so cruelly placed upon him was, perhaps he did not have to suffer alone, perhaps he would find people who understood him, who accepted him.

The prospect of eternity seemed certainly less frightening if he didn’t have to spend it alone.

He saw the realization on the other man’s face. The shock and awe morphing into relief that he was not alone. A mirror to his very own feelings.

Now that he saw him, and truly noticed him, had no desire to fight him anymore either.

There was no purpose in it.

Why should they keep killing each other every single day when they awoke to the same fate the next day. Why should they cause each other horrible pain if there was no relief from it? He was no monster. Or rather he did not want to be one anymore. Because for the countless men he’d killed before he surely was one.

But it was not too late to change, was it?

He hated it to be tortured by awakening in agony, to feel the numerous wounds he sustained in battle before he had the short mercy of a never lasting death. Why should he want to do the same to the other man, knowing he would suffer. His pain would be a mirror to his own. Perhaps he was weak, but he could not do it. He could not kill him for being punished by his God with the same curse as he was.

He was tired, a bone-deep wariness to him as he was sick of this useless war.

It seemed like the other man felt the same, he saw it on his eyes as they closed in on the battlefield. Those dark eyes he could lose himself in. He wanted to see warmth in them. And love perhaps. Somewhere far away from this raging war. The depth of his feelings surprised him but after everything, he’d been through he had no strength left to fight it.

In the end, it was he who dropped the sword first.

It was not like it mattered.

It was not like he could be killed.

If the other man wanted to end him without a fight it would only save him the pain of more than one wound when he woke up again. 

The killing blow never came.

Instead, he saw how the man's sword, too, dropped into the sand.

Taken over by exhaustion he stumbled but was caught by strong arms, pulling him close, letting him feel the warmth of another human being for the first time since what was probably months or years. He nearly sobbed in relief. 

They stood amidst the raging battle, holding each other as people around them died. For at least this moment they did not matter. Nothing mattered except for this unexplainable bond they were sharing.

It didn’t last long.

Soon enough they were caught in the crossfire, sharp blades slicing through their skin. This time he did not die alone. This time there were fingers entwined with his, holding on until he was swallowed by darkness, holding him until air filled his lungs yet one more time.

For once the pain was bearable. For once he did not dread waking up.

There seemed to be a silent understanding of the horrors they both lived through. They shared the same agony, the same course, despite being enemies.

Or were they?

He knew he was supposed to hate him, to resent him. He was supposed to want to kill him, for being different, for his heretic belief.

He did not want that.

Perhaps he was the heretic himself.

Then again he had long lost his own belief. 

Where had been his merciful God as he had suffered?

It was not God who had held him and offered him comfort.

It was not God who spoke to him in soft words of understanding.

It was not God who was quickly becoming the center of his word.

Yet it came as a surprise when he was being kissed. But he welcomed it with a neediness that surprised him. Possessed by utter greed he tasted blood and dirt and it should have been disgusting. Yet it was the sweetest thing he’d ever tasted. The forbidden fruit, utterly addicting, leaving him to crave more of it. 

He remembered learning of the first sin. Yet if it was sin, why did it taste so good? Why was there no regret?

Sin shouldn’t have felt like this. So perfect, so right. He should have felt shame. Or guilt. For he was disobeying his God, for he was committing a grave sin, right amidst the raging battle around him.

He did not care.

He was promised eternal salvation and paradise at his God’s side for fighting this war. What he got was hell.

This was heaven instead. 

He had been taught that laying with another man was a divine sin. He had been taught that those feelings he’d been hiding his entire life were unnatural, that a man could not desire another man like he was supposed to want a woman.But if those feelings were wrong, if he wasn’t supposed to feel them, then why did kissing this man felt so natural? Why did it feel as if he was born to do this, as if he finally found the piece that had been missing his entire life?

It did not matter anymore. 

What was he to fear? The church? Should he fear being killed for the sins he committed? If anything he had been served his punishment for months of the battlefield. 

Neither did he fear the wrath of a God he would never stand trial before. How could he, if death was nothing permanent, nothing to fear and respect anymore?

Even if they killed him, he would rise again. Showing them the divine miracle they’d always spoken of.

God did not matter when he fell to his knees in worship. An entirely different sort of holy communion. He did not need to swallow the blood of Christ. Not when he drank from the source of divine life.

Desecration of his God’s name as he spread his legs in disgraceful luxuria. Desperate prayers of sin left his lips as he experienced a pleasure so consuming he was sure he ascended into his personal heaven.

For the first time in his life, his body was being worshipped, almost as if he was a holy temple and he was certain he could get addicted to it. The biting kisses on his skin, the exquisite fullness that was so addicting he never wanted to miss it.

And those arms holding him as he slept. Tightly protecting him from the cold and any enemies, hot breath against his neck as they shared warmth and safety.

If this was sin, he gladly would spend eternity committing it.

God had shown him nothing but suffering and war. This man had brought him peace and love instead.

The choice of whom to worship was the easiest he ever made.

This man might have been everything he was taught to hate. But for him, he was everything he wanted to love. The second half of his soul, someone he could spend forever loving and worshipping.

From the moment they walked off the battlefield, he had found peace. He had set out to go to heaven. In the end, he had to crawl through the depths of hell until found it. In the arms of another man. Holding him as he slept, warming his frozen limbs, and keeping him safe from any harm.

He felt happiness at the prospect that death was nothing permanent. Not anymore. It had transformed into a new beginning. He would be reborn instead. There would be no war nor plague nor another human being that could take his love from him.

No matter what happened to them, they would face it together. They would fight it together, endure it together. What was he to fear when he was not alone anymore? When the last thing he saw as he died were dark eyes gazing at him lovingly until he faded into nothingness. How could he fear it when he knew he would awaken to soft caresses, to warmth and safety.

In the end, they would survive. Joined in their own private paradise. Together.

_My heart is trembling - it will fly -  
_ _it will fly, beloved - come, awake -  
_ _to where malignant, terrifying cries_  
_and a monstrous litany of death  
_ _break from the rumbling, shaking earth._


End file.
